I look ahead of me, at the long stretch of sand that continues unobstructed to the very tip of South Beach.

That’s where I’ll be, I think, 3.6 miles away from here, and my legs will get me there and back for a total of 7.2 miles.

I begin to run, full of childish joy.

My head is far from quiet, far from serene. Ideas surface as they wish.

Bulky ideas that carry with them other, secondary ideas.

The truth is, in the beginning, my head is doing more running than my body, but after about ten minutes, with my heart pounding out 170 beats/minute, my head is quiet, and only my body is running.

Cruise control.

I pick one knee up.

I strike my toes on the sand and pick the other knee up.

These are my pistons. They can pump forever.

Life Does Work in Mysterious Ways

Ahead of me I see a group of four runners. Three guys, one girl.

I don’t try to pass.

I wait for my natural pace to catch up with them.

As I’m about to leave them behind, the oldest of the four runners speaks to me.

-Eight miles. Eight miles everyday.

I immediately sidle beside him and repeat what he said, but in the form of a question.

-Eight miles- everyday, huh?
-That’s right. We run from 5th Street, up to 47th Street, and then back down to 5th Street. That’s eight miles.
-And you do it everyday?

The old man laughs. I’m having difficulty believing that he runs eight miles everyday. It just seems like a lot. But, then again, the beach is nice, and so is running.

-That over there is the master of the soft sand. He arranges this run.
-Oh yeah?

I follow the old man’s gestures and see another man, not quite as old, in black shorts and socks. His hair is long, black on gray, all over his head and face. He has brown glasses and a band around his right arm, between shoulder and bicep.

The master of the soft sand nods, agreeing with the old man that he arranges this eight-mile run everyday.

-You’re lucky to be running with Raven on the Raven Run. While he’s still with us. You may not know it now, but you’re lucky.